Yeah, yeah, I'm writing a Chlark future-fic. I love 'em, so what if they're horribly AU. Chlois, no Chlois, I don't know; it doesn't really come into this story. I don't explain how Clark and Chloe got to this point or anything; there are much better authors than me who've got that more than covered. Just take one of their ideas and imagine my fic set somewhere in that reality. It's more of a fluffy drabble I wrote while trying to get over writer's block on a different piece. Anyway, hope you enjoy the sap.

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Late Night Conversations Never Make Sense

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"I am completely and utterly cooked. Just done. If I have to type another word I think I'll scream," Chloe groaned, sinking wearily into her chair. She'd just placed the final draft of a huge story on Perry's desk, and she was drained of all energy. It was dark in the newsroom, as everyone else had gone home for the night long before, and Chloe's head started bobbing as she began to fall asleep.

"Now that's something I never thought I'd hear you say, even after being up for three days straight," a deep male voice said to her left. Chloe rolled her head on her shoulders to see her husband leaning against her desk and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose for the millionth time that day. "Can I bring you coffee? Perhaps I should just inject caffeine straight into your arm?"

"I hate those glasses, Clark. If you insist on wearing some, can't you even get some stylish ones?" she muttered, inhaling deeply and rubbing her hand across her face.

"You know style isn't the point, Chlo'," Clark answered patiently, pushing the glasses up again. They'd had this conversation many times before.

Chloe snapped her head up and pointed accusingly at the man. "And I hate that! Stop it! If you must wear the most damn ugly pair available at the store, at least make sure they fit! You're constantly adjusting them, and it makes me crazy!"

Shrugging, Clark said, "I was thinking of breaking the nosepiece and duct-taping it back together. Just to add to the effect."

"I will seriously never speak to you again. Ever."

He chuckled. "Aw, that's not nice."

"And you can kiss sex goodbye."

"Even without the glasses?"

Chloe nodded emphatically. "Yes. That would be the extent of my horror at the complete dork you've made yourself into."

She was very tired, he could tell, but he couldn't resist nudging a little more. "So that would mean I'd probably have to move out, right? No more Clark Kent in your life. You wouldn't be able to bear the sight of me anymore."

"That's the gist of it, buddy. But you can send Superman around any time you want. At least he doesn't try to hide that gorgeous face. I swear, Clark, you do everything backwards. Most superheroes wear masks in costume," the woman grumbled, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. "Like Batman."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with my outfit, no matter how many supposedly vague hints you drop. You're just grouchy because you're not at home asleep right now at..." he paused to look at his watch, "...three-eighteen a.m."

"I'm not tired," she argued, opening one eye wearily.

"Oh, Mrs. Kent, you lie so badly," he grinned. "Shall I take you to bed?"

"So many connotations, Clark. So many ways to interpret that."

"As far as I can tell, there were only two. 'Shall I fly you home, deposit you safely in bed, and stand watch over you until you are asleep?' and 'Shall I fly you home, deposit you safely in bed, then thoroughly ravish you upon said bed?'. Either way's good for me, but I'm kinda leaning towards the latter."

"Of course you are," Chloe responded, leaning over to pat him on the arm. "And you're going to be so disappointed when it doesn't work out that way. I'm far too tired to be ravished tonight."

Clark affected an exaggeratedly stricken look. "Have we reached that point in our marriage already? Where our physical relationship slows and eventually halts? Because I'm still young, and the sexual repression might lead me to become unfaithful, you know. I've certainly got my pick of women."

"Your renowned Boy Scout morals would never allow you to cheat on me, flyboy," Chloe shot, her bark of laughter barely covering the huge yawn that followed it. "Besides, it's never a wise idea to piss off someone who knows your biggest secret, especially when that someone is a top investigative journalist who could have it in all the papers before supper."

"Touché. Come on, let's go home," he said, packing up a few papers he knew she'd want later into a folder and putting it in her purse.

"Clark?" Chloe asked, her eyes drooping. "I want a burrito."

"Huh?" he asked, scooping her up easily.

"I...wan...na...burrito," she yawned, head rolling into his chest. "Or...a...'nana split."

Now she really was falling asleep. She always asked for very random things when she was falling asleep.

"Will...you fly me to...Maine...for lob...ster?" she murmured into his chest during the cab ride home. Clark had decided it would be better to take grounded transportation this late at night. He was a little sleepy himself; compound emegencies on several different contienets might not tire his muscles, but it was a little wearying to the mind.

"Tomorrow," he chuckled, throwing a 'she's dreaming, she doesn't know what she's saying' look at the can driver and hoping he bought it.

Soon he was setting her down gently on her side of the bed and removing her shoes, as he'd done plenty of times before when Chloe worked herself into utter exhaustion.

"Clark?" the blonde said groggily as he unbuttoned her blouse to get her sleep-shirt on.